Over the past few months things have been happening to the old derelict house at the end of the village. It used to be covered in ivy, and surrounded in thigh high grass and weeds. Recently the owner and his son have strimmed the grass and pulled most of the ivy off the outside wall. Inside the ivy is through the walls, roof and windows, but it is all dead now, with dead leaves everywhere.

The rooms used to be full of furniture, beds, with mattresses on, crockery and cooking utensils in the kitchen, tables and chairs and old magazines and papers. Several trailer loads of stuff was taken away or burned on the shore, the iron bedsteads are dismantled and are still in the house and the rooms just about gutted.

I have taken lots of photos, and will go back and take more, but the owner is a bit of a difficult character. It is very sad. It was obviously a home, many years ago, and somebody cared about it. There are battered old pictures on the walls, crocheted doilies on the dressing table, and broken china ornaments and glasses. In the kitchen there is a big tin bath, full of old rusty bread and cake tins, a kettle and some pans. Everything has been piled together, perhaps they are coming back to get them, but in the kitchen there is an old Singer treadle sewing machine and as you see, in one of the bedrooms there is an old radio.

The stairs are pretty lethal, and there is just a plank of wood across the landing, so you can see down into the kitchen! The skylights are out, the wallpaper is peeling off the green and slimy walls, and yet you can still visualise it as someone's home. I find it an incredibly sad building, and the skeletons of dead birds only add to the feeling.

Promise a more cheery blip tomorrow . . . . !